


Graceless

by eretria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-06
Updated: 2010-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eretria/pseuds/eretria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"What happened?" Sam asks under his breath. "How did he get here?"</i></p><p>"This guy just dropped him here like a sack of potatoes. Drew some sigil on him and disappeared again."</p><p>Coda to 5.18</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graceless

**Author's Note:**

> beta and invaluable help by Auburn and murron

_"Somebody left a package for you. You might wanna hurry. It's in bad shape and I can't fix it."_

Bobby's call is mysterious at best, fucking unsettling at worst. At Sam's question, Bobby's cryptic call ends with two words: _"Your angel."_

Dean hits the accelerator hard, the Impala's engine screaming in protest. For once, Dean ignores her pain.

Despite everything Dean had said to Sam last night at the motel, he wasn't anywhere close to being ready to enjoy a night off the hunt. They'd been searching for days. Talked to so many voodoo guys and mook women his head has started to spin. Twelve states and still no sign of them. What gnaws at Dean the most is that he puts Cas first on his list. Before Adam. Before his own blood. His own family. For completely and utterly selfish reasons. Something tight and cold coils in his chest at the thought of Cas being dead before he can put things right, before he can regain the faith Cas once had in him. It has become vital to find Cas. Urgent as breathing. So he speeds through the torrential rain toward Bobby's. Sam doesn't ask questions.

When they finally get back to Singer Salvage, Dean stumbles into Bobby's house, leaving Sam behind in his haste, out of breath, breaking the front door more than walking through it. Cutting straight across the kitchen, he steps into the old books and coffee-smell of the library.

In the semi-darkness that's only broken by a small lamp on the desk, Dean stops dead in his tracks when he takes in the figure on the bed that's now a permanent addition to the library. The posture with the stretched out arms is too much like a crucifixion: Broken, bloodied, cuts and bruises everywhere, but breathing. Cas' chest rises and falls slowly, evenly.

The gentle movements shift a slip of paper on Cas' chest, placed right over his sternum.

Dean inches closer, almost afraid to breathe himself. He looks at the note, squinting to make out the hasty scribble: _"Don't say I never did anything for you."_ There is a lazy picture of a stick-figure with wings on the far right corner.

"Son of a bitch," Dean says just as Sam rounds the corner, bringing a gust of moist, cold air with him that makes the fire in the library's open fireplace flicker in response. Dean tries to smile at Gabriel's last practical joke and fails. Looks at Cas' mangled face on the white pillow, at the pale open trenchcoat against the green throw, at the sigil carved into the slim chest and flashes back to another angel's broken body in the hotel.

_You win some, you lose some._

Only Dean's tired of losing.

When Sam bends to read the note as well, he makes a sound between a hiss and a snort. Dean's glad for his brother's silence. He sits down next to the bed, feels Sam's gaze on him, then hears his brother tiptoe into the kitchen where Bobby's wheelchair squeaks its entrance. Behind him, he hears Sam talk to Bobby quietly.

"What happened?" Sam asks under his breath. "How did he get here?"

"This guy just dropped him here like a sack of potatoes. Drew some sigil on him and disappeared again."

Dean remembers the feel of the boxcutter in his hand. Cold plastic, warmed by Cas' hand. The dare in Cas' eyes. The bile in his throat as he pushed against the blade to break Cas' skin. The incision was too easy, the sharp blade slicing as though moving through butter. Dean still tastes the cloying smell of blood on the back of his tongue when he thinks about it. The blood has dried now. Dean wants to reach out, wants to make sure Cas' pulse is strong and Cas isn't burning up with an infection, but Dean's unable to move. It's as though the boxcutter is still in his hands, still slicing deliberate, cruel blasphemy into skin that should have remained untouched.

"Did he say anything?"

_"Tell those muttonheads to take care of my little brother better." _Bobby does a fair imitation of Gabriel's voice.

Sam gives another quiet snort.

"He looks bad, son," Bobby mutters. "What happened?"

Cas twitches, groans, goes still again. Dean doesn't know how badly hurt he is, or why Gabriel didn't heal his brother. Doesn't know why Bobby hasn't at least tried to dress the wounds.

"We don't know."

Sam tells Bobby about the sigil Dean carved; Dean hears Bobby suck in a sharp breath. "Son of a bitch."

"How long has he been here?"

"Midnight." The wheelchair squeaks. "Don't give me that look, boy," Bobby says, irritation tainting his words. Dean doesn't need to see Sam's look to know what rankled Bobby. "I tried to tend to the wounds but I couldn't even get close to him. Something about that sigil the other one – "

"Gabriel," Sam chimes in.

" - Gabriel drew," Bobby continues, "stops me from even getting to the bed. I couldn't do anything. And believe me, I tried. Poor kid looks bad enough."

Leave it to Bobby to call even Cas, someone who has a good 2000 years on him, "kid". Dean's lip twitches upward. He leans forward, stretching his hand and is surprised to feel a slight resistance, like an electric current, stopping his hand a good twenty inches before he can so much as touch a hand to Cas' shoulder.

He's sure Bobby hasn't tried hard enough. He kicks himself for not trying at all. "Get me some bandages, will ya?" he calls over his shoulder before he bends down and tries to survey the rest of the damage. It's not pretty. The remaining four angels hadn't been going for an immediate kill. They'd gone for revenge. There are slashes, cuts, some deeper, some shallower, the white shirt is no longer white but marred by blood. Bruises and abrasions over Cas' cheekbones and chin, purpling and making his eyes swell shut. Cas swollen lower lip is split, a trickle of dry, encrusted blood on it that makes Dean wonder if he's lost teeth in the fight. He fights a wave of nausea when he sees patches of Cas' hair missing, the scalp bloody and raw and almost burnt looking.

The need to help, to do something to at least prevent infections is almost physical; his hands twitch in Cas' direction but hit the invisible barrier again, pain shooting up all the way to his elbow. "Damn it!"

"I tried that already." Bobby's voice is right next to him suddenly. "It's no use. Gabriel must have shielded him somehow."

"Why would he do that?" Dean spits as Bobby rolls his wheelchair even closer to the barrier.

"A last sick joke?" Sam offers, appearing next to Bobby.

Dean doubts it. He's seen Gabriel in the car, has seen him in the motel. No, there's something else to this, something he doesn't see now.

Cas groans again and Dean flinches.

"Find a way to get to him," he says, toneless.

Sam squares his shoulders, his eyebrows knitting, forehead creasing in the foreshadowing of the unavoidable argument: "Dean, seriously, do you think we can just pick up a book and find whatever convenient Enochian spell Gabriel used to shield Cas from--"

"Find it!" Dean snaps. He pulls a book from the shelf with more force than necessary, dust spilling as it slips free. He doesn't have time for Sam's sudden nihilism. Not now. Not today.

Ignoring the look that passes between Bobby and Sam, Dean sits down and starts brushing up on his Enochian.

Two hours later, he's is cursing Enoch along with Gabriel, Lucifer, and the rest of the damn angels. A headache pounds behind his forehead, but he's no closer to finding a solution.

The words start to blur before his eyes, running together, dancing. Dean rubs his dry eyes, glances at the clock that's meticulously eating the seconds away with muted clacking sounds. Quarter past three in the morning. He hasn't slept in days, feels the tightness in his temples, the dull ache behind his eyeballs. The warmth of the open fireplace makes it hard to concentrate.

On the other side of the table, Bobby scratches his head, puts a book over to the pile of already read ones, then grabs another. The slide of the leather binding on the desk and the rustle of pages sound too loud in the quiet room.

The lamp next to the bed flickers, guiding Dean's focus to the various pill bottles lined up on the antique nightstand. The evidence of Bobby's frailty is almost enough to distract Dean from Cas' situation. He stares, gaze glued to the painkillers, the numerous fingerprints on the waterglass, betraying a long time without cleaning and frequent use. _Damn it, Bobby. _

To Dean's right, crammed in a chair that's too small for his frame, Sam's insistently tapping away at his laptop, trying to find clues, chatting with three hunters at the same time to pick their brains and libraries.

Nothing so far. The sigil's Enochian. That much was clear from the beginning, even without research. The meaning, however, the way it works, still eludes them. It seems that no book, no hunter, no demon, no one has ever heard of this sigil.

_"My own witness protection,"_ Dean hears Gabriel's voice in his head. He wonders if they'll ever find something. The other angels hadn't found Gabriel, had they? What if--

The ringing of the phone is deafening. Dean flinches, whirling in his seat. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam running a shaky hand through his hair. Sam's other hand is frozen on the keys of his laptop, his whole body tense as he watches Bobby roll over to pick up the phone without a label.

"Rufus!" Bobby says, his voice steady.

"What?"

"Where? "

"When?"

Bobby listens. Nods. Hangs up. In the dim light, he looks more pale than before, but when he turns back to them, there is a gleam in his eyes: "Rufus found a lead on Adam."

Sam is on his feet so fast his chair topples over and clatters to the ground. He barely hangs on to the laptop. "Where? How?"

"Where matters," Dean says, his heart slamming against his ribs. Finally. In one night, both lost ones. "How doesn't. Only how you can get there the fastest."

A swell of pride rises in Dean when Sam doesn't ask the obvious question. Dean throws him the keys to the Impala. Sam catches them with ease. Nods with that half smile of his flickering on just for a second.

Bobby will be another matter. Dean takes a deep breath, then stands beside the wheelchair, saying: "Bobby, go with him."

"We can't leave you alone here," Bobby starts to protest, but Dean interrupts him with a hand to his shoulder.

"I'm not alone. Got Mr. Comatose."

Bobby looks up at him and it still kills Dean inside bit by tiny bit. Bobby should see him eye to eye. "Not funny. What if the other angels come back to get him?"

"Somehow I don't think they can. I mean, think about it. We can't even touch him. Gabriel must have done something, or this place would have been crawling with mooks as soon as Gabriel dropped Cas here."

Orange light from the fireplace flickers over Bobby's features, carving them, deepening lines. "Why don't you let me stay here, then, and you go with Sam?"

There's something too flat in Bobby's gaze. The very tone of his voice projects defeat and everything in Dean rebels. His own words, spoken in this very room just a few days ago come back to haunt him.

"Because Adam needs someone with skill and a clear head, and right now, neither of us can provide that." He squeezes Bobby's shoulder once, bones too prominent under his fingers, then lets go. "I," Dean stops, clears his throat. "_We_ need you out there, Bobby."

Bobby gaze flickers, a confused crease between his brows. It eases as the meaning of Dean's words sets in. He looks at the Impala's keys in Sam's hand and gives a wry smile. "Get the van, idjit."

Sam shrugs. Throws the keys back at Dean. "Good luck with Cas," he says.

"Get Adam," Dean replies. He reaches for the chair Sam pushed over and puts it back up, the leg catching against the edge of the carpet, dragging it up just a little. When he raises his head from the task of smoothing the fold in the dusty carpet, Sam's already left the kitchen.

Bobby's wheelchair squeaks a dissonant farewell, then both men leave the house to the wail of the wind and the rain. Silence presses closer to Dean as the front door closes behind them.

"Just you and me now, Cas," he murmurs into the library without looking at Cas.

***

Past the point of fatigue and well on the way to sleep-or-die now, Dean still feels the jitters in his gut, the tell-tale tension in his legs and in the too-strong grip on the book in his hands. He drops it unceremoniously when it proves to be a dead end again. A look at Cas reveals no change and the smell of the coffee Bobby brewed earlier gets too strong to ignore. He needs fuel. Even if it'll make the jitters worse he needs something in his hands right now, something to take away the damn dizziness.

In the five steps it takes to get from the library to the kitchen, he takes in the sounds of Bobby's house that are as familiar as breathing. The third floorboard in the kitchen creaks. Bobby's been talking about fixing it for years now and never does, and Dean's weirdly glad about that. The fridge hums like an oversized insect; it's old, probably making the energy bill go through the roof. On the counter, the coffee maker clicks whenever it reaches the point when the machine decides it's time to restart the heating element to warm the already stale and sour coffee. Bobby's coffee has always been too strong, the kind that burns going down, leaves a feeling of felt on your teeth and churns in your stomach. Hunter's coffee. It doesn't matter – Dean welcomes it tonight.

He grabs a mug from the cabinet – chinked, the coffee stains etched into the white glaze despite washing it – closes his hand around the handle of the coffee pot and pours. Steam rises from the mug, curling lazily into the night. The wind rattles the blinds in front of the window. Rain lashes against the glass, a steady thrum that seems to have followed them all the way from Motel Hell.

Dean flashes back to Gabriel's message. _"If you're watching this, I'm dead."_ It's taken until now to realise what that means: They lost an archangel. Probably the only one besides Cas in the entire damn heavenly host that showed any kind of interest in humanity. It still surprises him – the change of heart, the sudden willingness to help. He is under no illusions that it was for Sam and him, but he knows that Gabriel's interferences wasn't for Kali's benefit alone, either. Kali. The ungrateful bitch had disappeared as soon as they'd been three miles away from the motel. So much for the Pagan gods interfering. At least she'd mentioned that she owed them. Dean sips his coffee absentmindedly, promptly burning his tongue. He hisses. Curses.

They lost an archangel. He remembers Cas talking about them; "Heaven's most powerful weapon."

Raphael had blown Cas to smithereens. It had taken an interference from God to bring him back. But Lucifer had managed to kill Gabriel, who, despite being a gigantic dick, was a clever dick. Not just about strength, but about intelligence. If anybody should have been able to trick Lucifer, should have survived in a fight, it should have been the Trickster. It hadn't worked.

The realisation makes Dean wonder just how Michael intends to kill his brother. Just how different Michael is. Dean's hand clenches around the mug. Cold sweat breaks out along his scalp. He'd been ready to say yes. He swallows, the coffee sour and bitter as it goes down. All he knows is that now, today, he doesn't want to find out how it would have been to play host to Michael.

Dean isn't ready to surrender. Not anymore. Thanks to Sam. Thanks to Adam. Thanks to …

He closes his eyes for a second, trying in vain to fight the nausea from rising once more as he remembers Cas' last words to him in Van Nuys. Opening his eyes again, he reaches for the coffee pot for a refill, swallowing a mouthful of the scalding liquid in order to dampen the taste of bile in his throat, to fill the void that opens just below his sternum. Cas had lost faith in him. Had gone down fighting with the certainty that it would be a Hail Mary to someone who'd betrayed him in the worst way possible. Yet, and that hurts more than the suicide run itself, he'd done it. To give Dean this chance.

Gabriel too. Gabriel had brought Cas back, shielding him from his brothers to give Dean another chance, too.

"Damn angels."

The wind howls around the house; forceful gusts sending twigs flying against the glass of the windows and Dean flinches. He rolls his shoulders, feels the caffeine starting to course through his system. Time to get his nose back in the books and channel his brother for a while.

Curling his hand around the mug, Dean shuffles back to the library, careful not to spill the potentially toxic liquid in the mug. His gaze goes to Cas, flits away, returns when he realises something's off: White light spills from underneath Cas' eyelids, retreats and comes back, like a thin, weak pulse.

For a moment, Dean wonders if he's hallucinating. Too much caffeine. Too little sleep. The lamp next to the bed flickers, pill-bottles rattling on the nightstand before suddenly flying in Dean's direction like shrapnel. He ducks out of instinct.. The pills scatter on the floor.

A choked gasp has him looking back at Cas. Again the white light appears, only this time Cas' eyes fly open and Dean is almost blinded by the brightness seeping from both Cas' eyes and mouth. The window rattles. Books come crashing from the shelves. Dean dodges a heavy volume hurtling toward him and drops the mug which breaks on the floor with a dull sound. Hot coffee soaks his boots and the cuffs of his jeans. He barely registers it.

Dean grabs the edge of the chair, white-knuckled against old wood. Light washes over him. His stomach relocates to his shoes. He's seen this before. Through swollen eyes, blood obscuring his view. Alistair's hand against Cas' forehead, pulling blinding brightness from Cas' very inside.

His grace. Cas' grace. It appears to be seeping from the vessel. Cas' face – for it is Cas' now, he told Dean that Jimmy's soul has been in heaven since God brought Cas back - is contorted in pain. The grace slides underneath his skin, turning it translucent, shining through, escaping out through the sigil on Cas' chest. It's like a trapped animal trying to get out. It moves farther, over Cas, just few tendrils connecting it to the body on the cot. Reaches the boundary Gabriel placed around Cas and flashes bright, even more blinding than before. Retreats. Crashes against the boundary again, sparking as it goes. Underneath it, Cas' body arches up. The grace crashes against the boundary again. Cas' mouth opens in a silent scream.

It's angry, Dean realises. He's dealing with a pissed off angelic grace, no longer with Cas himself, no something he can talk down and calm down. His stomach bottoms out just as the window shatters with a clang and a hiss of flying glass, he ducks, covers his head to dodge shrapnel and still feels shards breaking the skin on his hands and neck and forehead.

When he looks up again, cold sweat breaks out all over his body, his mouth painfully dry: Cas is awake, if not aware. The grace half in, half out of him, a bizarre picture that should look funny and is anything but. Dean's sure that Cas doesn't know what's happening. The grace coils and flares, bathing Cas' skin in deadly white light, blue eyes washed to a pale watery colour. It's the eyes that make Dean's heart miss a few beats, a hollow feeling flooding his chest. Those eyes are confused and terrified. Blind.

Dean gasps for air, feels his heart start to slam again and does the only thing that comes to mind: he starts talking. It doesn't matter that Cas doesn't hear, that he won't understand or comprehend, Dean's doing this for himself as much as for Cas. Because maybe, just maybe, he'll get through to Cas after all. Maybe, just maybe what he says might make Cas remember that he's not broken into two parts but is one. Maybe when he gets through to Cas' mind, Cas can appease his grace.

It's a fucking stupid idea. The grace sparks along the barrier and the bookshelf only barely misses Dean when it crashes to the ground. His idea, his stupid idea - because when has he ever been good at talking? - it's clutching at straws. He does it anyway.

Talks. Just talks. Nonsense, threats, memories, passive-aggressive comments worthy of Cas himself.

Dean yells. Insults Cas. Blasphemes.

Cas shrinks back, pain washing over his features as he presses his hands to his ears, grace seeping from underneath them, between his fingers.

Dean whispers and entreats Cas. Appeasements to the grace and to his friend.

Cas' eyes are wide. Huge. Washed out blue darkening just a little.

Dean croons of his outrage. His shame. Whispers _Please._

Cas grows still. Just a second. It's over too soon. The fight between grace and human and angel starts again and Dean's skin crawls, boils as he watches Cas' body jerking and thrashing on the cot, the grace sliding in and out of him, brandishing as it goes. Deans swears he can smell burnt flesh.

It's too much, too much to bear witness to and he can't, can't watch this continue, can't watch his only allegiance against heaven, his _friend_ ,being torn apart like this due to a fight he didn't start, due to a human he never should have had faith in and yet did, always did. Never stopped, despite his words. Dean's utter inability to help, Gabriel's sick sense of humour, Cas' innocence … it's all too much.

Something snaps. Dean watches fresh blood pour from Cas' nose and mouth, his eyes white and his mouth open in that awful silent scream and just throws himself against Gabriel's barrier. Ignores the burn and the inhuman force that wants to push him back. Dean pushes. Feels energy sizzling up his arms like ten thousand hot needles, smells the burning of hair and just holds on.

Yells. "Cas, snap out of it, damn it. You can fight this. Get your damn act together and see this through or so help me I will rip out that damn grace of yours with my own hands." Dean can't. He knows. It doesn't matter. Under his horrified eyes, the grace starts a frenzied attempt to breach the barrier again, to detach from Cas' body.

"I'm sick of your suicide runs. I'm sick of your self-sacrificing for the greater good. You're no good to me as a martyr. I need you here, you son of a bitch." Dean slams both hands against the barrier. The bones in his arms are on fire. His teeth rattle with the pain. "Here."

Light explodes against the barrier, bright enough to make Dean close his eyes for a few seconds, the afterimage of Cas' body writhing in pain burned into his retina. The hiss and crackle, like a high-voltage line snapped in two, stays with him though.

"Damn it, Cas!" Dean shouts. "Start saving yourself, you stupid bastard, I can't help from out here." The grace reacts to the shout instantly, thrashing and hissing against the barrier. It reminds Dean of a tiger in a cage, jumping against the bars that hold him in. Underneath it, Cas curls on his side, hands pressing against the sigil's carving as though trying to hold the grace in.

"You stupid son of a bitch, what have you done to yourself?" Dean whispers, helplessness washing over him when he realises that brute force isn't helping, either. There's nothing he can do. Nothing to get through, nothing to break the damn barrier. It's all down to Cas now.

The grace retreats a little when he inches away from the barrier to run a hand over his cold and sweaty forehead. Dean's brows knit in confusion. He reaches out, comes closer to the barrier. The grace flares. Dean removes his hand. It slides closer to Cas again.

Realisation hits him like a tow-truck at full speed and he wonders if there's anything, anything at all he's ever done right when it comes to Cas. He leans back, guilt churning in his stomach like acid. Presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees blood-red stars. He can't just watch and do nothing. If that's what he is damned to do, he can't, he won't. He's seen too much already, can't take this, too. He already knows it's on him, but he can't _watch_.

Dean pushes his chair back, tears his hands from his eyes and stumbles away from the bed, dizziness hindering his movements.

The rain lashing through the burst window is cold, sucking the warmth from the library. Dean's ready to walk but can't help look at Cas again, one last look.

Lightning flashes outside, bathing Cas in a different brightness. Lines sharp and chin pointy, skin thin and vulnerable as it stretches over a prominent Adam's apple. Once more, the grace slides back under Cas' skin fully and he rears up, his face a mask of pain, reminding Dean of that Edvard Munch painting.

But this time, his eyes aren't blind. This time, Cas looks at Dean. Locks his gaze on him, halfway between delirious with fear and pain and terrible, acute lucidity. Pinning Dean in place and curling a hand around Dean's very heart and soul when one hoarse, desperate plea comes over his blood-stained lips, barely audible: "_Dean_."

Cas is awake. Not locked away somewhere but actually awake while his life's essence seeps from him, while a part of his very being is trying to separate from the mortal body it's tethered to. Dean's head swims. His heart slows, only to start beating twice as forceful again.

Cas is awake and asking for help.

There is nothing that will stop Dean now. Nothing. He will find a way through Gabriel's barrier and he'll hold on to the grace with both of his hands to stop it from leaving Cas.

Dean doesn't think about the consequences when Cas reaches out a hand for him, the hand of a drowning man reaching for the life-buoy. Just stretches out his hand, too. There is a slight resistance for a few seconds, a thin, insurmountable sliver of electricity separating their palms. Dean sees the half-moon shapes of fingernails illuminated by the sparking barrier, the cuts deep and bloody in Cas' palm. Then the barrier ebbs away or retreats. Dean's sweaty hand closes around Cas' cold one and Cas tightens his fingers around the back of Dean's hand. Dean feels the bones in his hand crack, pain shooting through him with a sickening rush, but he doesn't let go, can't let go. Not now. Not ever. Not before he has shown Cas that he knows. That Cas can win this fight. That Dean has faith in him.

So he just holds on and pours everything that's been left unsaid into that painful union of their hands. Breathes rain and blood and electricity and Cas. Sees the barrier sizzle along the right sleeve of Cas' coat and shirt, then disappear toward Cas' skin. The grace coils in a tight spiral over Cas' chest.

Dean shuffles on his knees, turning so he's even closer to the bed, reaches his left hand, tentatively sets his index finger against a long tear in the coat where a patch of Cas' skin is visible. Touches it next to a cut that's no longer bleeding. No resistance. Just a light tingle. He frowns. Glides index and middle finger higher until he reaches Cas' biceps. Nothing. Just skin. His fingers meet resistance again when they reach Cas' shoulder. Cas' hand grabs Dean's tighter still when the graces flares once more. Dean tries to ignore the pain – oh, God, the bones are scraping against each other now – and wrap his head around what exactly is happening here. The barrier seems to shrink. The grace appears to be closer to Cas now, gliding over his chest rather than hovering above it. Dean's gaze snaps up to Cas' face, to eyes open but no longer terrified. It's almost like watching realisation dawn. Like seeing a spark return.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean murmurs, not really knowing what he's trying to get Cas to do, but it doesn't matter. Cas holds his gaze. Blinks once. His face contorts in pain once more, eyes closing and deep lines appearing next to his nose and mouth when the grace attempts one last-ditch effort to separate from Cas. But Dean just holds on, breathing against the nauseating pain radiating from his hand, clamps his other hand around Cas' shoulder and just stares. Somewhere, deep down, he thinks that this stare would be worthy of Cas himself – unblinking, demanding. He adjusts his grip on Cas' shoulder, realises that he can spread his fingers farther and sets his palm against Cas' collarbone, fingers sliding underneath the open shirt and curling around Cas' shoulder.

"C'mon." He rubs his fingers against taut muscles and warm skin. "Cas, c'mon." Dean can barely hear himself over the sound of the wind, but Cas opens his eyes again.

Cracked lips move soundlessly. Under the drying blood, they're almost colourless in the light of he grace. Cas meets Dean's gaze. Steady. Calm. Whatever it is, whatever it means – Cas is ready. His chin moves, barely discernible, a nod, an affirmation. A sliver of dread runs down Dean's spine at the thought of what exactly it is Cas is ready for.

In the end, it happens as quickly as it began. Cas murmurs something Dean doesn't understand, his voice brittle and almost toneless, the syllables long and drawn out; Enochian, Dean assumes. The grace flares one last time, bathing Cas in pale light, but barely has any room left, the barrier too close to Cas' skin now. It hovers for just a few more seconds, then it contracts, moves to Cas' face, gliding over his forehead and cheeks like a caress. Cas closes his eyes again, the corners of his mouth twitching into the barest hint of a smile. _Niis,_ Cas whispers. _Zirdo nonci._ He opens his lips, breathes in – Dean stops breathing, unable to tear his gaze away – and the grace follows that intake of breath, sliding between Cas' lips, a long, slow spiral of light and energy until it vanishes.

It's different from what Dean saw happening to Anna. Cas doesn't explode in a ball of blinding light when the grace reunites with him, he just rears up once, light sliding under his skin and spreading out. The merest outline of gigantic wings becomes visible, but it's gone before Dean can fully make out whether or not he really saw them. The light fades quickly, and Cas sinks back on the bed, breathing heavily.

Rain patters through the empty window frame on a fading gust of wind, dampening the sheets next to Cas' head, darkening them. Bobby will have a fit if his bed ends up wet in addition to the window being blown to hell. Dean lingers anyway, blinking the afterimages from his vision, trying hold onto the mental ones. Those wings, those glorious wings of light...

The prosaic reasserts itself, though, the cool air against Dean's face reminding him of drafts and broken glass, waking him from his relieved daze.

He can't leave Cas under the broken window, however, the rain and the lessening wind drifting in, stealing the warmth from the room. He gets up and slides his hand from Cas', a muted sound of protest following him. "Just closing the blinds," he says, a murmur over the sound of the rain. Cas relaxes infinitesimally.

Fuck, but his hand hurts. He'll need ice if he doesn't want it to swell up like a balloon. But first, he goes to close the shutters. The old wood moans in protest as Dean moves it for the first time in what feels like ages, the paint flaking from it. Then it rattles shut and immediately, the howling is muted. The fire stops flickering like mad and resumes its silent dance over the dwindling wood in the fireplace. The wind has seeped the warmth from the room, so he crouches to add another log. Flames lick along the bark, hissing and crackling comfortably.

Dean lets the new warmth wash over him, lowers his head to his chest, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. The rain on his forehead and neck dries as the flames grow taller. With the warmth comes a bone-deep weariness, the earlier adrenaline rush leaving him spent. He almost laughs as his gaze drops to his hand. It's starting to swell; Cas' fingers have left angry red marks, making Dean wonder if the bones have cozied up underneath the skin. Luckily, the pain has subsided to a dull throbbing. Nevertheless, he'll have to have it checked later. No good going into the apocalypse with only one hand to rely on. For now, though, painkillers will have to do.

He stands with a groan, knees popping, dizziness taking a choke-hold, and grabs the fireplace's mantle to steady himself. Screws his eyes shut until the dizziness subsides. Maybe sleep isn't as overrated as he always says it is.

When he opens his eyes again, he shuffles to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of painkillers – not thinking about it, not now, not now, he _can't_ – that rolls over the old floorboard when he accidentally trips it into movement. He downs two with tap water that's heavy on minerals, then reaches for the freezer to get ice. Wraps the cubes in a dirty towel and sets the package on his hand, hissing as the cold sparks along his skin.

 

A bottle of bourbon balances precariously on the edge of the windowsill and Dean takes it without looking at the label, unscrews it left-handed and gulps down a few mouthfuls . Warmth spreads through his chest and he sighs in relief. Painkillers and booze, no better way to reach oblivion sooner rather than later.

He ditches the ice when his hand feels ready to develop ice-crystals in the veins and turns back to the library.

Cas has curled on his side so he faces the room, knees bent just slightly. His coat is rumpled, probably beyond saving, but Dean notices something else: the coat is wet, as is Cas' hair. The rain had lashed in earlier, the barrier must not have stopped it. Cas isn't shivering yet, but it's just a matter of time.

Dean moves, his legs as sluggish as his mind will soon be. He looks at Cas curled firmly on top of the green throw on Bobby's bed and decides that there's not a snowball's chance of getting him to move. So he grabs the spare blanket from the armchair, shakes it out and places it over Cas.

His foot catches in the carpet and he stumbles, barely catching himself on the chair and decides that he won't move any more tonight. He's beginning to feel the warm fuzziness around the edges that tells him the painkillers are working and it's really better to just sit down before he falls over somewhere in the middle of the library that's still riddled with glass shards from the window. Knowing his luck, he'd probably slice open his jugular due to the fall. Also, one broken hand is enough.

The fire crackles solemnly in the background, slowly warming the room. Dean stretches his legs, crosses them at the ankles. Pulls on the quilt covering Cas when he sees a gap between knee and mattress. Dean smiles, thinking how similar Cas looks to Sam though currently, all that's visible of Cas is a mop of wet hair and his forehead, the rest of him tucked under the blanket.

It's because of that trip down the memory lane that he doesn't notice the light touch at first. The tingle that goes through his right hand. The warmth that's spreading. It takes him a few seconds to get his fuzzy brain under control and look - to a hand peeking from underneath the blanket. A hand covering his, lightly. He expects pain, really, he does, because no painkillers work that fast, not even combined with alcohol, but there is none. There should be, but there's none, just the continuous tingling, as though the skin on his bones is mending and … whoa.

No.

"Don't," he says, because Cas needs whatever strength he has left to heal himself, but Dean's too fuzzy to get up, too tired to pull back his hand. Deep down, although it is the weirdest fucking revelation of the entire messed-up day, he will have to admit that the feel of Cas' hand on his – heavy, dry, warm, not soft – is something he doesn't want to come to an end just now.

"Cas, don't," he repeats, though. "Take care of what you need. I'll be fine. Don't waste your mojo on me. Use it to fix whatever Gabriel broke."

The hand on his doesn't move away, curls a little tighter instead; Dean newly mended bones are still sensitive and not liking the memory of being crushed. "He didn't break anything," the gravelly voice comes from underneath the blanket. Then the blanket moves, revealing Cas' face and Dean's glad to see that at least his eyes and lips don't look quite as swollen anymore.

"So what exactly did the bastard do?" Dean asks, belated anger making his stomach churn. If he wasn't dead already, Dean's happily kill Gabriel for what he'd done to Cas.

Cas' raises his eyes to meet Dean's, holds his gaze; steady, warm, knowing. "He gave me a gift."

Dean snorts, because, seriously? "Man, you need to start making a frigging wishlist if that's what you get from your brother. Is there a return policy for unwanted angelic gifts?"

The skin around Cas' eyes crinkles for the fraction of a second. Weary amusement. "I wouldn't want to."

"Masochist much, Cas?"

Cas doesn't answer. Just raises his arm to push back the blanket and his sleeve. Dean stares at the expanse of skin, and the cut that still runs along the top of Cas' lower arm. It's no longer bleeding but still open, flesh visible under sliced skin, but there's more. Just under the skin, there's something, like a shimmer. Dean unfolds his legs and shifts in his chair, angling his upper body to get a closer look. Cas presses his fingers to the back of Dean's hand, finding to spots that already have marks from earlier. "Look closely," he murmurs, and Dean does. It takes him a while to realise that the shimmering isn't just visible in the cut. It spreads from there, running under Cas' skin up to where the coat and shirt hide the rest of it, but he sees it again on Cas' chest as he pushes the blanket back. Cas shivers but lets Dean look, lets him push aside the shirt and run his index finger over Cas' chest, feeling the tingle in the pad of his finger as it glides next to the carvings of the sigil, seeing the shimmer that's barely visible but omnipresent, the grace sliding against the barrier, like a tattoo under Cas' skin.

Dean's gaze snaps to Cas' face, his breath uneven and his heart slamming against his chest. Cas holds his gaze and his hand, the barrier sending up barely-there jolts of electricity where their palms meet, making Dean's head swim with implications and realisation until he's too dizzy to keep his eyes open. "Holy shit," is all he murmurs. Because, really, what else can he say?

He pulls the blanket back over Cas one-handed when he feels Cas shiver again. Cas still hasn't let go of his right hand and Dean's not sure he wants him to. His mind spins, the alcohol and the painkillers and the lack of sleep slowing his movements and dragging him down toward blissful oblivion faster now. He should lie down, he thinks. Instead, he moves his fingers, spreads them along Cas' skin to feel the tingling sensation of the barrier underneath Cas' skin again. Rubs his thumb along the inside of Cas' wrist. Pulse against pulse. Warm skin against his. He nods off to Cas mimicking his small movements. He jerks awake a couple of times when his head sinks to his chest and pulls painfully at tense muscles until he finally decides that he's had enough. Dean just inches the chair closer, bends in a mostly comfortable angle and rests his head on the bed, just below the crook of his arm.

He can hear Cas breathe beside him, slow and even. Cas' long fingers have stilled their movement against his wrist, just rest there now, warm and _there_.

The blanket smells of old books and dust and wool. Familiar. Safe. A log in the fireplace sinking into the ashes with a sigh is the last thing Dean hears before he drifts off.

***  
"Want breakfast in bed, princess?"

Dean snaps awake violently, heart hammering against his chest, going tense on an ingrained fight-reflex. His eyes and limbs won't cooperate and he struggles: to blink furiously at the blurriness clouding his vision, to push against whatever it is that's constricting his movements. Someone claps a hand on his shoulder and laughs. A familiar laugh. "Take it easy, dude," Sam says, amusement still thick in his voice. His heavy steps move away from Dean.

When Dean finally manages to untangle himself from the grey blanket that's wrapped around him, he rubs the sleep from his eyes, groaning when he notices his right arm's fallen asleep and his neck is in the worst crick of the century. There's a disgusting taste in his mouth and a headache crawling around in the back of his skull, drool on his cheek and, yeah, he confirms when he touches a finger to it, creases all over the right side of his face, but he feels more rested than he has since before he returned from the pit.

The smell of frying - bacon and eggs - wafts from the kitchen, he hears them crackle and spit in the frying pan. Hears Bobby hum. Hears the coffee maker gurgle and puff.

"Eggs or pancakes, sleeping beauty?" Bobby calls from the kitchen, his voice accompanied by the clinking of plates and forks being placed on a table and it's all so damn normal that Dean wants to break into hysterical laughter for a moment. Instead, he shrugs the blanket from his shoulders that he distinctly remembers covering Cas with last night, surprised to find that he can't move his hand. It's trapped in another, long fingers just barely under the sleeve of Dean's shirt, warm and rough. The night comes back to him in a rush and Dean curls his – no longer broken - fingers against Cas' hand without thinking about it. He can barely feel the barrier now, even when he slides his fingers in small, circular motions against Cas skin; probing, feeling, ignoring the weird intimacy that's almost worse than outright groping. His gaze moves to Cas' face, finds Cas looking at him from barely open, sleep-confused eyes.

"If you don't answer, Sam gets everything," Bobby warns and Dean lets go of Cas' hand, a flush creeping over his face and spreading to his neck.

"Don't threaten, Bobby, it's unbecoming," Dean rasps and throws a grin over his shoulder. "I'll take the eggs. Over--"

"Over easy, I _know_, boy." Bobby huffs indignantly. "How many years have I fed you now?" Dean's smile just grows bigger and Bobby quirks one corner of his mouth up, too. "What's your angel friend want?" he asks.

Dean turns back to Cas who has pushed up to one elbow and looks dazed, but a lot less damaged then when Dean first saw him last night. "If you're all out of angel food cake," Dean says and receives an almighty groan from Sam at the – admittedly - really, really bad pun before continuing, "he'll try pancakes." He shrugs when Cas raises an eyebrow. "Rough night," he says, avoiding Cas' eyes. "Need to get your strength back."

He rises from the chair and reaches out a hand to Cas again: an open invitation. Cas looks at it for a while as though considering, then takes it and lets Dean pulls him to his feet and guide him to the table in the kitchen. Dean drops him in a chair, next to Sam and in front of a giant stack of pancakes and wonders just how absolutely dead to the world he must have been to miss Bobby and Sam coming home, much less making breakfast. Somehow he doubts they'd been particularly quiet about the whole thing.

Sam reaches over Cas' plate, stabs his fork into the topmost pancake and drops it unceremoniously on Cas' plate. "You heard him," Sam says, jerking his chin in Dean's direction. "Get your strength back." Dean doesn't miss the look of concern on Sam's face when he gives Cas a quick once-over before dumping a dark pool of maple syrup on Cas' pancake.

Behind Dean, Bobby pulls the frying pan from the stove and the wheelchair squeaks closer as Bobby pushes toward the table, setting the pan on the table. It's only when the smell of fried bacon, butter and eggs is just a few inches away from him that Dean realises he's starving.

He eats with a healthy appetite for the first time since Famine rolled into town, enjoying the crisp crunch of the bacon between his teeth and the toast dipped into runny yolks.

For a while, there's only the clinking of forks against plates as all of them eat. Or sample carefully, in one case. Dean's amused at the subtle changes on Cas' face when he tries his very first pancake. As pancakes go, Bobby's are the most awesome ones under the sun, so Dean's not surprised when he sees the sceptical lines on Cas' forehead smoothing out.

Still no one's talking, though.

"So," Dean says when he reaches behind him to get the freshly brewed coffee to the table, "the elephant's getting a bit big for this room: How was your night? Where's Adam?"

Bobby's fork sinks down against the plate with a clink. Sam averts his eyes when Dean looks at him.

Dean swallows some of the inky black, bitter coffee, clears his throat to not let his disappointment show. "I take it Rufus' lead was a dead end?"

Sam nods, still unable to meet Dean's eyes. His fork shreds a pancake. "We were half a day late. The trail was cold by the time we got there."

"Damn it," Dean utters.

Bobby fidgets, hand tapping against the wheel of the chair. "If we'd been faster--"

"Then you still would have been a couple hours too late," Dean states, matter-of-factly. "Don't sweat it, Bobby. We'll find him." He indicates Cas. "We found one. We'll find the other." The weirdest thing is that he actually means it. "We'll find him," Dean reiterates, addressing Sam as well. "Okay?"

"We will," Cas agrees, the determined look on his face only made more intense by the bruises purpling along his jaw.

"So, how was _your_ night?" Sam asks, turning to Cas.

Cas looks to the bed in the library, then from Sam to Dean. Answers, one corner of his mouth tipping up and his gaze holding Dean's: "Graceless."

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> From the Enochian dictionary:
> 
> niis - come  
> zirdo - i am   
> nonci - you


End file.
